A fellow once described me as a teller of tall stories
He told me you go pull my other leg
I often hear you talk of Clara mountain
And of the mountain fields of Clarabeg.
He said you say you come from Duhallow in north Cork
You must think I'm a gullible old chap
In a world atlas I looked up the map of Ireland
And there was no place called Duhallow on the map.
He accused me of lying about the dipper
He said a bird with unwebbed feet can't swim
He did not seem to know much about nature
So I did not bother arguing with him.
I asked him did you know that the kookaburra
Belong to the kingfisher family
He laughed hey mate of course you're only joking
A kooka fishing I have yet to see.
He said you talk of the woods of Mountleader
And of the fertile fields of Annagloor
But for all I know you may be having me on
For with your stories one never can be sure.
He is not open to knowledge or to learning
Though he is one who thinks he knows it all
And from those around him he will never learn
For the sun can't ever shine through a brick wall.
He is one that I don't meet too very often
And when I do I choose the words I say
I never talk to him now about nature
Or of Duhallow many miles away.
He shook his head and he gave a little snigger
When I spoke about the fields of Claramore
Is this another one of your tall stories?
As I've never heard of such a place before.
No comments:
Post a Comment